Who: Enjolras (narrative, but if you'd have reason to be around the Inn, feel free to jump in?) What: Making an unpleasant discovery When: Wednesday morning Where: The Inn and just outside of it Warnings: Some unpleasant reminders of death
Enjolras desperately wished he knew what was wrong with his and Grantaire's friendship but, to be honest, he couldn't put his fingers on it. It was strange and unsettling. Before he had his mind set on revolution, before Grantaire had faced unimaginable grief, they'd been as close as brothers. Then everything had changed. Oh, they were still friends. There was just so much between them.
Somehow, Enjolras had thought Lawrence would make things better. They were there with nothing to fight against, nothing to come between them. It should have been fine. He didn't know why he'd bothered being so optimistic. Why he'd assumed Grantaire could be happy for the person he'd become. All they did now was bicker and argue.
He had to try. He knew how much Grantaire hated talking about serious things, but he was getting desperate. So he made his way to the room they'd given him and knocked. And knocked again. It was relatively early and his friend didn't typically wake till around noon, but usually he would get a flurry of swear words at his sleep being interrupted. Not so much now. And that? Sent a cold chill through him. The last time he hadn't gotten a response at a closed door had been Gavroche's. And he didn't know if he could handle that again. Swallowing the nausea he felt, he gave the door a push and looked inside.
The bed was empty, made as if it hadn't even been slept in. A few odds and ends were scattered but most signs of Enjolras' closest friend were gone. A wave of dizziness passed through him and he dropped to the edge of the bed to ride it out.
By his side sat the sketchbook he'd given Grantaire on his arrival. The man was talented, even the drink hadn't dulled that. And he'd given him the gift to try and nurture that in him. Absently, he picked the book up, flipping through it, trying to calm the sound of blood in his ears. So many familiar faces, so many memories. Some recent, but most of a time long ago. A time neither of them spoke of despite how badly it was needed.
"So you're his Apollo."
"Please, don't add fuel to the fire. Enjolras, it's a pleasure. And you must be his Adrienne."
The beautiful woman, not the first to turn his friend's head but the first to capture him, to enchant him so absolutely. She'd blushed prettily, ducked her head with a shy smile. She was perfect. And now she was gone.
"Come on, Apollo, how about a smile?"
The others all laughed, except Joly who at least hid his face behind his hand so he could smirk without being seen. Enjolras just narrowed his eyes. "Do you mind? I'm trying to work."
The laughter danced in Grantaire's eyes. "Work later, you've been at it for hours. Come on, have a drink with us."
Somehow it was hard to deny his friend anything. Sighing, he closed the book he'd been making notes out of and pushed his papers away. One evening of drinking with his friends wasn't likely to send Paris into a state of despair.
The next sheet had all of them. All but Grantaire himself. Combferre's hair, almost as unruly as his own. Courfeyrac's dark features accenting his face. There was Marius, still eager and innocent. And of course, Enjolras himself, in a rare moment of relaxation. There was even a laugh on his face.
The haunting pictures of the past mingled with the more recent but still beautifully detailed and accurate ones. He and Eponine, their foreheads touching, smiles on their faces. The vampire, Rebekah. The sisters, Anna and Elsa. All the people Grantaire had befriended in his short time in Lawrence and now... Now he was gone.
Again. He was gone again, returned to the Musain to die by the side of a man he called friend and yet... Christ, had they ever really known each other? For Grantaire to believe anyone could be more welcomed at Enjolras' side than him, for Enjolras to not truly understand the depth of Grantaire's affection...
He couldn't do this. Not again. He bitterly dropped the book back on to the bed and stormed out, his famous temper brimming at the surface. The problem was, there was no one to be angry with. That was the problem with the Seal. You had no one tangible to fight when you were wronged. And he'd once again been wronged. He made it all the way to the grounds outside the Inn before he gave up, fuming. If he was near tears, so what? His best friend, the most loyal and devoted person he'd ever known, was gone. Dead. Because of him.
And no matter how often people tried to soothe him, he didn't think he could ever forget that he was responsible for all those deaths. Those faces in the drawing, gone because of him.
He dropped to the steps, wrapping his arms around himself as if to block the pain from taking over his body. But nothing would ever stop it. No matter how hard anyone tried.